


Thirteen Ways of Looking at an Apple

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crawley the Serpent, Garden of Eden, Gen, good omens exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-01
Updated: 2007-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:12:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which one thing leads to another, and the Garden awakens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirteen Ways of Looking at an Apple

I.  
In the Tree, the serpent slept.  
  
He was perfectly still. His slow breath disturbed neither the scaled, tapering length of his body, nor the thick boughs which supported him. His tongue occasionally flickered out from his mouth; his eyes were clear and unblinking.  
  
All about him hung a wealth of apples. Indeed, the Tree held dozens of them. They were heavy, like bits of polished stone, and in the unbroken moonlight their color was black, or nearly so.  
  
At the Gate, having long ago learned that if one must wait, one might as well make the best of it, the angel played solitaire.  
  
  
II.  
The serpent was up to something. Aziraphale was sure of it.  
  
“Excuse me,” he said, and strode up to meet Crawly at the cusp of the meadow.  
  
But Crawly did not respond. Rather, he remained as he was, his tail wrapped around a pointed stick, and his eyes cast down in determination. Every now and then, he shifted his weight and tilted his head.  
  
For a long moment, Aziraphale stood very still, remaining a few paces behind him. Across the ground and through the dry dirt were written a hundred things.  
  
Or, rather, across the ground was written _one_ thing in a hundred different ways.  
  
Here was _CRAWLY_ in large, sloping letters, and there again in a more delicate cursive. The name was emblazoned in capitals, in shadows and in curls. But then again, no: they weren’t all the same. There were several variations of spelling and accent, and round them all loomed the outline of a great apple.  
  
Aziraphale took a step backwards, his hands fidgeting at his sides.  
  
Then Crawly looked up at him. “Did you ever notice,” he asked suddenly, “that when you say something a few times in a row, it loses its meaning?”  
  
“No,” said Aziraphale. It was not quite a lie, for though he had endured lengthy choir rehearsals in Heaven since the Beginning, he had never allowed himself the luxury of this overt thought. Even self-preserving comebacks like, “Yes, Gabriel,” could be useful once in a while. And so he finished, quite simply, “If you’re in the market, I’ve always thought Heathcliff a fine name.”  
  
Crawly snorted. “Please tell me you’re joking.”  
  
“I was only trying to help.”  
  
“Help? Don’t you have a _gate_ to be watching?”  
  
Aziraphale felt his cheeks flush. “And don’t _you_ have _deceit_ to be hawking?”  
  
  
III.  
“Take a look at _this_.”  
  
“You mean to tell me they’re seedless?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“But how do they, er, _propagate_?”  
  
“It happens automatically, with or without seeds.”  
  
Aziraphale scrunched his nose as he stared up at the Tree. The apples looked quite well: round and bright, their skin ruddy and unblemished. Crawly peered out at him from between leafy boughs.  
  
“That’s just the way knowledge works,” he said gravely, shifting ever higher. His tail waggled; then it disappeared. “Sometimes all it takes is an idea, and then...”  
  
“And then what?”  
  
Crawly didn’t give an answer, or at least not one that Aziraphale could hear.  
  
The apple knocked him squarely in his skull, and all he could see were stars.  
  
  
IV.  
“Cassiopeia.”  
  
“Gesundheit.”  
  
Crawly rolled his eyes. “Don’t start,” he said.  
  
“Sorry,” the angel tittered. It was quite late in the evening, and the trials of the day, such as they were, had begun to toll upon him some time before. He lay in the clearing, his cloak rolled into a cushion beneath his head and his hands clasped in a cradle above the cloak, staring up at the sky. Crawly was beside him.  
  
This wasn’t the most comfortable of arrangements, if it could even be labeled as such. Certainly, he didn’t _trust_ the serpent, though he _did_ trust _himself_ enough to believe he would know it when Crawly was trying to pull one over on him.  
  
Besides which, even at night, the Garden was never completely dark. Here and there traces of stray ether glinted against the landscape like drops of water upon a lens, blue and red and orange and white. It suggested the sort of unlived in familiarity of a dream, and he knew the next Celestial Sphere was only a wing-flap away. Perhaps even closer.  
  
Also: in the half-light, he could see Crawly’s every movement.  
  
Right now, he was coiled in such a way as to derive the most benefit from the beams of moonlight which streaked across his back. The result was rather slimming, Aziraphale thought, and wondered how one so low could reap such an advantage from the benign environment. He was almost smiling as he craned his long neck skyward and rattled off names for constellations that no doubt didn’t exist.  
  
And yet Aziraphale felt quite relaxed. He let his eyes focus on a cluster of stars, and then said, “What’s that one over there to the left?”  
  
“Which?”  
  
“To the left.”  
  
“To the left of what?”  
  
“The bear.”  
  
Crawly tilted his head before glancing back to Aziraphale. “That’s Orion’s Nightstand.”  
  
“The _other_ left. Just there. Looks like a piece of fruit to me,” Aziraphale replied, and squinted his eyes. But it didn’t look like just any piece of fruit. It wasn’t a pear, or a grapefruit, but an apple.  
  
“Oh,” Crawly agreed.  
  
  
V.  
“This _isn’t_ like comparing grapefruits to pears. It’s just a simple question.”  
  
“Regardless, they’re not for sale,” Crawly said, climbing back up the Tree. In the sharp, early light, he looked at once cunning and fierce, but his voice was tired. “Simple as that.”  
  
“But if they were, how much would you charge for them?”  
  
“I told you--”  
  
“Yes, I heard.” Aziraphale paused. He knew what the price was. But he was also determined to carry on, and so he ventured, “What if one were to open up a boutique? Or perhaps just a nice little shop. You know, to sell different things.”  
  
“Things like what?”  
  
“Oh, antiques. Or, I don’t know, perhaps even _books_...”  
  
“Who’d want to buy a bloomin’ book?”  
  
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I was speaking hypothetically,” he replied, a trifle pettishly.  
  
Crawly bowed down from the Tree and met Aziraphale’s eye. “I don’t get it,” he said. “If you _have_ things, why would you go and try to sell them again?”  
  
Aziraphale blinked. The serpent had a point.  
  
  
VI.  
“Well, there’re other things to eat, you know.”  
  
“Nothing good.”  
  
“What about pears? And grapes are rather flavorsome.”  
  
“Have you tried the crab apples?” Crawly asked lightly.  
  
“As a matter of fact...” As a matter of fact, Aziraphale _had_ tried them, and they were simply _awful_. Afterwards, he’d been sick for a week, which was an entire day longer than after he had eaten the river reeds. He made a face, and then caught himself.  
  
“Ah ha! You’ve got to admit it. They’re useless.”  
  
“They _must_ be good for something.”  
  
“Besides making a soggy, sticky mess on the forest floor?”  
  
“Mulch doesn’t have to _look_ agreeable to be effective.”  
  
“Even the birds won’t eat them.”  
  
“Yes, well, culinary snobs that they are--”  
  
“Give it a rest, angel, and speak for yourself. Your secret’s safe with me.”  
  
Aziraphale smiled placidly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he chirped. “And if they didn’t mean something to someone, they wouldn’t be here.”  
  
“Funny if they were just His idea of a joke, eh?”  
  
“I’ll grant you one thing: they’re no replacement for the real thing.”  
  
  
VII.  
 _Plunk_. The apple bobbed up and down in the water, like one of the ducks which floated beyond. It was nearly dusk, and occasional shadows stretched across the pond, eventually nipping at the blue horizon. Here and there, squawks could be heard over the rustle of wind through the trees. The ducks swam on.  
  
“It’s no use,” said Aziraphale. “They’re not paying us the slightest bit of mind.”  
  
“What about this one?” Crawly nudged a brilliant red orb from the pile. It was slightly smaller than the other apples, but no less enticing. “I bet one of those fat mallards could handle it.”  
  
Aziraphale stared down at it skeptically. Then he reached down for it; it was light, and smooth. It was such a little thing, so beguiling and innocuous. He took a breath.  
  
 _Plunk_.  
  
They waited.  
  
At the far side of the pond, a pair of giraffes bent their speckled necks and drank. Somewhere in the darkening wood, a wolf howled; the cicadas trembled in response.  
  
In time, Aziraphale said, “What if one were to _cut_ them?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“The apples. Perhaps the ducks can’t bite through the skin.”  
  
“Ducks don’t have teeth.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Crawly was silent for a long moment. His eyes took on a faraway look, and the tip of his long tongue skimmed through the cooling air. “’S worth a try,” he said, casually uncoiling himself and sliding atop a bolder. He met Aziraphale’s eye. “Do you have a knife or something?”  
  
And Aziraphale did.  
  
First they split the apples into quarters, and then, realizing that they were still too large, into sixteenths. The scent of the ripe fruit made Aziraphale’s mouth water. But being a creature of reason, he knew what his limits regarding raw food were, and so he retrieved a piece of old bread from a fold in his robe and gobbled it down with a grimace.  
  
“Kind of you to offer to share,” Crawly said sullenly as Aziraphale wiped the crumbs from his mouth.  
  
“I didn’t know you wanted any.”  
  
“ _Moldy crusts?_ You think I’d eat moldy crusts?”  
  
“Well, no.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then why make such a row over it?”  
  
Crawly sighed. “Just toss the apples, angel.”  
  
Using his robe as a billowing pouch, Aziraphale walked up and down the shore, and let the slices slip free of his fingers like so many bits of glass. When they hit the water, they made only the barest of splashes, and still he whistled, and coaxed in a sing-song voice, “Here, duckies! There’s a good ducky. I’ve yummy apple for you.”  
  
“You don’t actually expect them to fall for that do you?” asked Crawly. And then: “Oh. Fancy that.”  
  
A large, glowering duck glided forward from the flock, edging here and there before closing in on a small piece of core. It arched its neck, dunked under the surface, and rose back up with a shudder. The apple was sharply visible in its throat as it swallowed.  
  
For several long moments, it remained perfectly still upon the water.  
  
“Is it quite all right?”  
  
“Who knows?”  
  
Aziraphale turned to look at the serpent. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Crawly said with a shrug. “Different physiologies have different reactions. And besides, I’m only the middleman.”  
  
“Oh, I’ve half a mind to--”  
  
“Shh! Here it comes.”  
  
Very deliberately, the duck swam over to the shore. It stared at each of them in turn: first at Aziraphale, its eyes glinting in the dying light with patience and resolve, and then at Crawly, with curiosity and knowing. It opened its beak several times, and then said in a soft, cultured voice, “One’s position in the universe is not quite definite. One cannot actually indicate the position of one’s self exactly; the best we can say is that one is ‘mostly here’ and ‘partially somewhere else.’ This is absolutely usual, in the sense that it is always happening to any material body. Only, owing to the small value of the quantum constant and to the roughness of the ordinary methods of observation, people do not notice this indeterminacy.”  
  
“Ah,” said Aziraphale.  
  
Crawly began to laugh. It was a low sound, quite lower than his lithe frame would suggest, and it sent a shiver up Aziraphale’s spine.  
  
“You _knew_ that would happen, didn’t you?”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“But you said--”  
  
“It’s different for everyone.”  
  
Aziraphale blinked. “Oh,” he said.  
  
“What else do we have to give them?”  
  
“Well, there’re some stones... And, um, some dried leaves.”  
  
“That reminds me... Have you got any bread left?”  
  
“I thought you were too good for moldy crusts.”  
  
A slow smile spread across Crawly’s mouth. “It’s not for me.”  
  
  
VIII.  
“Well, for one thing,” said Crawly, stretching out to balance on a bough, “they’re full of vitamins.”  
  
“What does that have to do with anything?” Aziraphale placed his hands on his hips, and adopted what he thought of as his most unyielding expression. The serpent smiled back at him.  
  
“You know.”  
  
This was true. Aziraphale _did_ know. She would need all the help she could get, and if the apples were actually healthy for her... Well, that was all right.  
  
  
IX.  
Aziraphale was back at the Gate when it happened.  
  
Of course, he was _aware_ of what was transpiring in the same way one might be aware that one’s shoelace has become untied: he’d have to sort things out eventually, but not until they had been rather dragged through the muck a bit. It was the way of things.  
  
All the bells and whistles, the serpent said. Everything you’d ever want. Everything you’d ever dream. Extensive memory. Lifetime warranty, guaranteed.  
  
The angel tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, but wasn’t reassured.  
  
Deep within the wood, the starlings took flight.  
  
  
X.  
Aziraphale took one step back, and then another.  
  
“I think you killed it,” said Crawly, matter-of-factly. He slid forward to inspect the charred remains of the apple, tasting the air with light flicks of his tongue, and glanced up. “Put that thing away, would you?”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale stammered, and gestured the flames from his sword. Then he replaced it in its hilt. “Old habits, you know. One moment I see something coming at me, and the next... Well. Obviously one must be allowed a few bouts of excessiveness now and again. You of all people should understand that.”  
  
The serpent hissed a soft laugh, “Sure I do.”  
  
“Good. Now if you’ll promise not to _throw_ things at me, perhaps we’ll be able to reach...” Aziraphale trailed off. The last whiff of ozone sparked by the ignition of his sword was at last lost on the wind, and in its wake lingered something quite different. It was heady and warm and sweet, and like nothing he knew. He gazed about him as though captured in the swift talons of a trance, and then down to Crawly. “I say,” he said, his voice a stranger in his ears. “Is it just me or does something smell absolutely _delicious_?”  
  
  
XI.  
“That’s disgusting.”  
  
“Mmph,” Crawly replied. And then, when the apple had moved past gullet and his jaws reconnected, “What?”  
  
“You can’t just keep eating those. You’ll be ill.”  
  
“Says who?”  
  
“Well,” said Aziraphale, “someone important to _sure_ to say it one of these days.”  
  
“I seem to remember _you_ mentioning something about bouts of excessiveness.” Crowley inched towards the heap of roasted apples, eyeing a large one near the top. “You’ve had how many, exactly? Sixteen?”  
  
“Certainly not!” Aziraphale sniffed defensively. He wiped the tips of his fingers on a patch of grass beside him. The sun was shining merrily, and the river flowed in the distant din of the wood. He felt quite satiated, and at ease. Yet he knew this was wrong. After a long moment and a deep breath, he continued, “You’ve had twenty-two.”  
  
“Twenty.”  
  
“I can see them through your skin.”  
  
And indeed he could. Here was an apple, there a thin stretch of scales, and once more an apple, on and on to the tip of the serpent’s tail. Crawly looked back over the length of his prostrate body, and while his smile couldn’t be called sheepish, it was certainly not without a degree of guilt.  
  
“Funny,” he said. “I don’t feel any different.”  
  
  
XII.  
Aziraphale shook with laughter. “I can’t do it,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes.  
  
“Come on,” Crawly replied coaxingly. “Just sit still.”  
  
“’S no use.”  
  
Without another word, the serpent opened his mouth, and took up Aziraphale’s sword.  
  
Aziraphale tittered, raising a hand. “Wait, wait. You’re tipsy.”  
  
Crawly couldn’t argue with this. And so it was only after he steadied himself that he began to inch forward. The sword extended his overall length by several feet, and though it made him appear suddenly overburdened and gawky, his eyes were intent on his target.  
  
With something not unlike a leap, he swept forward and knocked the apple from Aziraphale’s head. Then he dropped the sword, and said in a triumph-drunk tone, “I knew it couldn’t be as hard as it looked.”  
  
“Mm,” Aziraphale managed. He ran his fingers through his hair, and stared down at the felled apple. “Good shot.”  
  
But his laughter became a hiccup, and then his hiccup became a moan. He held his belly, pushing himself up from the ground, and made his way to the wood, where he was promptly sick.  
  
“You’ll get used to that,” Crawly called after him. “Like I said, it’s different for everyone, and after that it’s just a matter of acclamation.”  
  
  
XIII.  
In the Tree, the serpent stirred.  
  
“What was that?” he asked.  
  
“I said I felt a drop,” the angel replied. He sat between the great, knotted roots at the base of the trunk, his legs spread out before him and his hands held open in his lap.  
  
“A drop of what?”  
  
“ _Rain_.”  
  
“Oh.” The serpent coiled around the farthest branch, and listened.  
  
In the Garden, it never grew quite dark, though a thick bank of clouds poured over the horizon. Here and there, distant bolts of lightning glinted against the landscape; above them, the apples were black.  
  
Eventually, the serpent said, “So tell me if you’ve heard this one...”  
  
And the angel hadn’t heard it. He listened.


End file.
